Ken Russell Brahms gets laid


Young Brahms

The Prologue of Brahms Gets Laid
by Ken Russell

OLder Brahms

© Ken Russell, 2003


She came at him out of the mist.

Perhaps that is why he did not recognise her at first. And although he had known her for nigh on half a century and lusted after her on more than one occasion, he had never seen her naked before. Not even in his wildest dreams.

Her bright hair was loose, as he had not seen it for years. A slight breeze lifted strands of it, as though spinning a gossamer cloak from off her bare shoulders. Her breasts made him weep with loneliness and desire.

With a reassuring smile, she embraced him; and without further ado, effortlessly bore him aloft, carpet bag and all. He was in heaven. The touch of her embrace was like a sustained B sharp that teased his answering blood into an ecstatic pitch. Up through the clouds they soared and ever onward, over the mountains towards black. The black, black forest with its pine tops scraping the blue ice bowl of the sky. He knew that forest, didn't he? – where something was nailed to a tree. To the very tallest tree. Something that, as they descended, began to resemble – oh, no – a pair of human testicles. Full of human seed.

Now he and she were circling above a grand piano in a clearing. A pretty, petite woman was at the keyboard, her lace- like hands confidently tracing patterns of caress on the ivories.  He blew her a kiss – to which she did not respond.  And as she continued to play, the cascading notes turned into clouds of butterflies, orange monarchs and indigo flimtails and sweet cabbage whites; which the seven children dancing around her tried to capture in big black nets.

That was when he recognised them all.

The figure at the keyboard was none other than Snow White. And the seven cavorting figures were the seven dwarves. This startling revelation sickened him, like a secret he was sworn to defend against probable assault.

Suddenly, two men in butcher's aprons appeared, leading a lamb on a rope. When they arrived at the grand piano with its raised lid, they held the struggling animal above the exposed vibrating strings and slit the lamb in two. Mucous and organs spilled from its wound. Gradually the piano filled with blood.

But nobody paid any attention, not even when a handsome Prince galloped up on a fine black stallion, stripped off and climbed into the piano of blood. The Prince began to sing in a foreign language he did not comprehend. In any case, everything was getting smaller as they sped onward in their flight, towards a big city where in the main square a naked baby with a big erection was banging away on a baby grand piano. Painted women in dishabille danced with carnival figures in animal masks and claws, while the burghers of the city –all in blindfolds – turned their backs on the spectacle and put their fingers in their ears.

Up, up and away again to another city. Down, down, down, towards the ornate domes and towers blooming into view. Towards the golden statues of heroes standing guard on imperial rooftops. Squares of green lay scattered far below like bits of broken chessboard. Rows of teacake houses with chocolate trim swam before his eyes. He was feeling a little dizzy. Was it the journey or the lack of food?

Ouch! That landing on a park bench had been rather hard.

He opened his eyes, wrestling to sit upright. His dream girl had gone. Only the sound of his own gasping breath greeted him.  Then he realised. It was the iron park bench itself which was hard. He had been sleeping on it all night and was stiff with cold.

He got to his feet, stretching his limbs in the morning sun.  He ran around the bench a couple of times to restore circulation, picked up his carpet bag and set off on a brisk ten-minute walk  that was to change his life.

As he did so, he tried to remember the dream in detail. How weird. Was it a prophecy or a memory?

He'd analyse it later.


© Ken Russell, 2003


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